


Further Consideration

by Hakanaki



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Everyone Lives Together, Gen, Light Angst, Nudity, Retirement, Smoking, implied grimmons, implied tuckington, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 01:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakanaki/pseuds/Hakanaki
Summary: “I did not expect to find myself here,” Locus says suddenly, and the vulnerability in his voice is almost unbearable.Maybe it’s the coffee, but Grif finds himself wanting to return it. “Shit,” he sighs, propping his head up with his elbow as he looks back out at the street. “Neither did I.”





	Further Consideration

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Reverse Big Bang contribution for the amazing [Quetzalcactus!](http://quetzalcactus.tumblr.com/) It has been seriously a BLAST working with them and writing this story, so everyone go check out [their art](http://quetzalcactus.tumblr.com/post/167813612740/a-grifloc-pizza-date-d-dont-let-them-fool-you) right now!

It’s supposed to be _easy._

Retirement, by definition, is supposed to signify the part of your life you don’t have to do anything. There should be nothing easier in the world than retirement.

But, Grif thinks bitterly, he shouldn’t really be surprised. It’s not as if he can _really_ consider most of his military career work of any sort. It’s not really any kind of revelation that he’s doing the same damn shit with the same damn idiots. Again.

He supposes that it’s not quite fair to say that it’s the _same_ shit. After Washington’s last brush with death, Dr. Grey basically forced him to relax-- _and what kind of sane person needs to be forced to relax, anyways?--_ which meant that in typical Blue Team Problems fashion, Tucker and Caboose retired, too. Sarge was physically incapable of accepting the idea of the enemy retiring instead of surrendering, so he decided that Red Team in entirety would also settle down, and do it better than the Blues ever did!

It should’ve been paradise.

He and Simmons found a place that met Simmons’ finicky demands, and he convinced Kai to come with them, and really, waking up to a quiet house someone else cleans should be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

But Sarge and Lopez are on one side, in a house painted so luridly red it’s hard to look at, and Doc and Donut have settled in on the other. They sunbathe in plain view most afternoons. Naked. Blue Team, in true, dramatic Blue Team fashion, all moved into one of the bigger houses around the block. Someone even managed to get Carolina in on it. Their backyard butts up against Sarge’s.

So the war’s over. But it’s never truly over. And Grif’s _sick_ of it.

He knows the door is going to slam open before it actually happens.

“Grif! What are you doing? We need you for Operation: Sacrifice Orange to take out the Blues’ landmines in the back forty!”

“You don’t _have_ a back forty,” Grif says moodily, sinking further into his armchair. “And how did you even get in here?”

“That’s classified!” So Simmons gave him a key. Great. “Suit up, dirtbag! We’ve got winning to do,” Sarge says, a familiar, dangerous look in his eye.

“ _No._ ” He’s not giving into this. He refuses to play into Sarge’s fantasies that there’s still some kind of chain of command going on. Simmons does it enough for the both of them.

“Winner gets s’mores,” Sarge continues, pulling a giant bag of marshmallows from--well, Grif doesn’t _want_ to know where he pulled them from. “And I have in my possession the very last bag of marshmallows in the canyon! I mean neighborhood!”

Grif stares at him. He will not give into this.

* * *

 

Hours later, Grif sits sulkily around the campfire, shoving his third s’more into his face.

Sarge _knew_ he would give into this.

Simmons is pressed up against his side, a warm line against his arm and hip, and the heat from the bonfire chases away the fall chill. Kai came over with beer and is currently trying to convince Wash into a drinking contest. Wash manages to both ignore her and keep an eye on Caboose, who is determinedly burning his marshmallow to an inedible crisp. Sarge has lit a stack of marshmallows on fire. Tucker and Carolina are in a fierce debate over the proper consistency of a s’mores marshmallow and it’s--

It _should_ be nice.

But--

There’s a _but._ And Grif isn’t sure he knows what it is.

“Hey.”

Simmons jumps, pulling away from Grif’s side with an undignified squeak, which he masks poorly by stretching. “I’m going to go-- over there-- yeah, I think, uh, Caboose needs help! With his marshmallow! See you later!” he babbles, edging away.

Rolling his eyes, Grif turns to look over his shoulder. Carolina is looming behind him, and after she flipped Sarge over her shoulder this afternoon, it’s more than a little terrifying. He can see why Simmons fled.

“You gonna sit down, or are you gonna stand there dramatically?” he asks, grabbing his beer and taking a pull.

Carolina shrugs and sits in Simmons’ vacated lawn chair, draining her own beer and shoving it deep into the grass.

“Was that really necessary?” Grif asks. “This is why Sarge thinks you’re planting landmines in the back yard.”

“Sarge is the reason I’m going to _start_ planting landmines in the back yard,” Carolina counters darkly.

He supposes he can’t disagree with that. “So what brings you to this side of the fire? Tucker win the great marshmallow debate?”

“He wishes,” Carolina scoffs. “Everyone knows the perfect marshmallow is browned but not burnt.”

“I don’t know,” Grif says, eyeing his half-eaten s’more. “Blackened makes for pretty gooey marshmallows.”

Carolina punches his arm.

“Ow! What did I _tell_ you about that!” he cries around a bite of graham cracker, massaging the injury. It’ll almost certainly bruise.

“Don’t be a baby,” Carolina tells him, sticking another marshmallow on her stick and shoving it into the flames. She watches it carefully as it toasts and pulls it out when it’s perfectly golden brown. “I ran into Locus the other day,” she says casually.

Grif sprays the gulp of beer he just took into the fire, making it crackle. “You ran into _who?”_ he shrieks.

“Keep your voice down!” Carolina says, sandwiching her marshmallow between graham crackers and chocolate with a little more force than strictly necessary. She glances around to make sure no one is paying attention before continuing. “He picked this colony for the same reasons we did. It’s quiet and no one knows who we are.”

“So what, he’s just here, too? Never mind getting in touch with anyone, sending a card or anything,” he mutters darkly, swilling the remainder of his beer around the bottle.

“He meets up with Wash all the time, apparently,” Carolina says. The way she scowls at her completed s’more makes Grif think that there’s some bitterness there, but if she’s surprised that Wash, a Freelancer, is keeping secrets, then Grif doesn’t know what to tell her.

“Figures,” he spits. “Doesn’t bother to leave us a note or anything, let us know what the fuck he’s up to, but he talks to _Wash._ ”

The fire crackles around them, popping unexpectedly. Across the fire, Simmons startles.

“That… is not the reaction I expected,” Carolina says after a moment. When Grif turns to look at her, her expression is inscrutable. “Tucker didn’t take it very well.”

“Yeah, well,” Grif starts, but he doesn’t finish his thought. They haven’t talked about it since they retired again. How, if Locus hadn’t come for him, he’d probably still be on that godforsaken moon, talking to volleyballs, and everyone else would be dead. How seeing him there made him simultaneously think he was losing it and that he hadn’t lost it yet. How he’d taken him right back to where he needed to be.

“He asked about you,” Carolina mentions, taking a bite of her s’more.

“About _me?_ ” Grif scoffs, folding his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not the one he had a weird stalker crush on.”

“Yeah, well,” Carolina responds, parroting him as she squishing the s’more a little more. “You’re the ones who saved our lives. You two should meet up or something.”

Grif doesn’t say anything more, just stares into the fire as he roasts another marshmallow and wonders why it is he feels so tired.

* * *

The night after everyone left felt vindicating. Let all of them go to their deaths--see if he cared. See if he cared while he was safe and sound on this moon, tucked into one of their bases, under blankets. The next food shipment would last him a solid week, after all. Maybe he could vid-call Kai and see if she’d like to join him up there, switch her base of operations.

But then, Grif figured, he could just call her tomorrow. After all, he had all the time in the world.

And then tomorrow became the next day, became the week after that, became…

Meaningless.

And once time meant nothing, neither did anything else.

So if his friends were gone and he had no friends anyways, the volleyballs may as well be his companions. Nothing held any meaning, so what did it matter that he dug through Caboose’s considerable crayon collection for hours until he found the perfect shades of red, maroon, pink, brown, cobalt, aqua, and blue?

None of it _mattered._ Not even the apology he spent days rehearsing to volleyballs with crayon and candy wrapper faces.

Until reality came back.

Locus was muted, gray with less green than he remembered, and somehow the most honest thing in his life at that moment. He didn’t immediately cart Grif away from his delusions back to the friends he wasn’t ready to face yet. He waited as long as he could, given the urgency of the situation, and he let Grif take his demons with him.

All seven of them. Even the deflated Church volleyball.

They had talked on that long shuttle ride--or, Grif had babbled and Locus had responded when he felt like it. Grif spilled his _soul_ to him, it felt like.

“I’m just sorry,” he’d murmured feverishly, hours after starting his rant. “I’m _sorry,_ and I’ve been sorry for years,” he’d finished, chewing on a licorice stick. Locus refused to let his smoke in his aircraft, but he’d given him weird, healthy alternatives. None of them were satisfying, but he supposed they took the edge off. As much as anything _could._

Locus had paused, checking their positioning before settling back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest. “Have you told them that?” he’d rumbled, turning to look Grif dead in the face.

“No, dipshit,” Grif had responded, scowling and spitting the licorice stick out. “Why the fuck else would I be telling you this?”

Locus had hummed in a tune that sounded vaguely like “fair enough” and sat back for a while. They watched the stars unfold before them, slowly--so slowly, even in slip space.

“You should tell them,” Locus said, hours later.

“Again,” Grif responded, sucking a fresh licorice stick between his teeth and thumbing the edge, like he was lighting up. It really wasn’t the same. “Why the fuck else would I be telling you this?”

“You should tell them,” Locus continued, a little louder. “Before you never get to again.”

Locus didn’t speak a single word for the remainder of their travels, no matter how many times Grif babbled nonsense at him, mostly on purpose to see if he’d clarify. And he’d spoken to Grif a handful of times at Temple’s lair, but it hadn’t felt like it’d really counted. As far as Grif was concerned, the last conversation they ever had was in that space shuttle, rocketing through the universe on an impossible rescue mission to save the people that were, impossibly, Grif’s friends.

* * *

 A week later, he’s not really sure how the universe managed to parse itself into packets small enough for his puny human brain to rationalize enough to make decisions, or how any of those decisions have led to this point, but Grif finds himself standing outside of some dinky hipster cafe anyways, hands shoved into his pockets as he waits for Locus to arrive.

A year ago, the idea of getting coffee with Locus would’ve been laughable at best, an offense punishable by shotgun to the face at worst.

Five years ago, the idea of being able to find a cafe anywhere to get coffee _at_ would’ve been delusional.

Grif leans against the outer wall of the cafe, one hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket and the fiddling with his cigarette mindlessly between hits. He’s not _quite_ sure what precise sequence of events has led to this exact moments, but it did involve getting Locus’s phone number from Wash and exchanging awkward texts. Locus doesn’t use emojis and ends every sentence with a period. It’s infuriating.

“Smoking is terrible for your health,” a familiar voice growls to his left.

Grif jumps, dropping his cigarette onto the pavement. Before he can bend down to retrieve it, Locus stamps it out with his boot, grinding it into the ground to add insult to injury.

“I just lit that, you know,” he complains, scowling up at Locus and then sighing to hide his shock. The grim expression he’d imagined, but not the cascade of dark curls, mussed by the wind.

Locus only shrugs, keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his black wool coat. The awkward motion makes him seem even more human than his face does.

Grif waits to see if Locus will say anything else. Two speeding cars and a gust of wind later, he gives up.

“Come on,” he says awkwardly, jamming both hands into his hoodie pocket. “It’s fucking cold out here. Let’s go in.”

Locus nods, reaching around Grif to pull open the door without so much as taking a single step. Grif stares at him incredulously before the warm waft of coffee-scented air hits him and he gives in, stepping into the cafe. Locus follows him and pulls the door closed, shutting out the chill of the late fall afternoon.

The cafe looks bigger on the inside, the counter to order stretching across most of the back corner. All of the small, polished tables look inviting and comfortable enough for Grif, but Locus makes a beeline for the one in the corner and unbuttons his coat, draping it over the chair that faces the door. Grif has seen Carolina, Washington, Sarge, and even Tucker do this a million times, but somehow it still surprises him. He’s not sure why anything that humanizes Locus surprises him anymore.

“Well?” Locus says, eyebrows raised. “Are you going to order anything?” He’s already clutching a mug of--

“ _Tea?_ ” Grif says incredulously, approaching the counter. “You came to a coffee shop to get _herbal tea?_ ”

Locus shrugs, and walks back to the table.

Grif sighs, orders a latte, and makes his way back to the table when it’s finished. He takes a seat, and for a while they sit in silence, sipping their beverages.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “We’re here to talk, right?”

Locus nods, setting his mug down with a deliberate clink. “We are.”

Silence stretches between them again. Grif wants to scream.

“I wanted to thank you,” Locus says suddenly, leaning forward slightly. His hair makes a curtain around his face, like he’s trying to hide. Which is ridiculous. Grif doesn’t really think of himself as the kind of person anyone needs to _hide_ from.

He’s also not the kind of person people usually _thank._ He takes a deep sip of his coffee to hide his shock, wincing as he burns his tongue. Wiping his mouth with his wrist, he puts his cup back onto the table.

“ _Thank_ me?” he asks incredulously.

Locus opens his mouth as if to speak, and then shuts it with an audible click. He scrutinizes Grif from across the table for a moment, fiddling with the string of his teabag.

Grif sighs, looking out the window. It’s a nice day, despite the chill, and people are out walking their dogs and going on runs. Disgusting.

“I wanted to thank you for… trusting me. For giving me a chance,” Locus continues.

That gets Grif to look back at him. The sarcastic retort on his lips dies--Locus looks so _honest,_ open even, staring at him across the table.

“I did not deserve that trust.”

Grif considers this. “Maybe, maybe not. I kind of owe you one, too,” he says, averting his eyes.

“For what?” Locus says, raising an eyebrow.

Grif shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “Y’know. For convincing me to go with you,” he says.

The irony of it hits him as soon as he says it.

He chuckles darkly. “We’re kind of fucked up, aren’t we?”

“Something like that,” Locus says dryly, a wry smile quirking the corners of his lips.

The silence that settles over them is much more comfortable. Grif drums his fingers on his coffee mug, begrudgingly admitting that this little hipster cafe makes pretty good coffee.

“However,” Locus says, sinking into his seat. “Whatever I did for you… it doesn’t make up for what I’ve done.”

Grif snorts, rolling his eyes. “All right, knock it off with the dramatics. What, are you a _blue_ or something?”

Locus frowns. “Don’t downplay it. I know what I’ve done.”

Grif sighs. “Yeah, dude. We all do. And Wash tried to kill us a bunch of times, too, and now he and Tucker are banging.”

This time, Locus growls, and for a moment, he’s just as terrifying as he’d been back on Chorus, despite his stupid human face and his stupidly pretty hair.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grif intercepts, waving vaguely. “No comparison, yadda yadda, I get it. We can skip the dramatic emotional part,” he says. “You helped us,” he continues, shrugging. “That’s what counts.”

Locus seems--well, not _placated,_ but he does dial down the intensity a little bit. Grif supposes that’s about all he can ask for.

“Look, you’re here, aren’t you?” he says, draining the rest of his coffee with a loud slurp. “ _That’s_ what counts.”

“It cannot possibly be that simple,” Locus says flatly, swilling his gross herbal tea around in his mug.

Grif shrugs again. “Think of who you’re dealing with,” he points out.

Locus looks pensive for a moment, and then he frowns and looks out the window. Grif swirls the remains of his latte’s foam around the bottom of his mug. He isn’t sure if it’s just because he drank his coffee too fast and the caffeine is catching up with him, but he feels a little strange. Restless.

“I did not expect to find myself here,” Locus says suddenly, and the vulnerability in his voice is almost unbearable.

Maybe it’s the coffee, but Grif finds himself wanting to return it. “Shit,” he sighs, propping his head up with his elbow as he looks back out at the street. “Neither did I.”

He feels rather than sees Locus look back at him, the loaded intensity of his gaze impossible to escape.

“You know,” he continues, turning back to look at Locus. “Retirement. Figured we’d all die from some stupid Blue Team drama.”

And how many times was he almost right, after all?

“How does it feel, to have made it this far?”

Grif can’t help the bitter laughter that escapes him. He wishes he had more coffee to down as an excuse not to answer, but Locus is looking at him expectantly, and shit, he’s not getting out of this one, either.

“Meaningless,” he says flatly, looking out the window again.

* * *

They leave the coffee shop amicably. It had been a tense conversation, and Grif knows that no matter what he said, there’s an entire world of tension left between them. But still, something about the day feels different once he gets outside.

Lighter. Just a shade or two.

Like something has been lifted from his shoulders. Which doesn’t make any sense, because he got depressing as _hell_ back there, and he should be embarrassed at it--

Thinking about it too hard makes Grif’s head hurt.

He goes home, intending to poke Simmons until he cooks dinner. Instead, when he slams open the door, he gets an eyeful of Kai strutting out of the bathroom after her shower. Naked.

“Dex!” she greets. “How did your coffee date with Locus go?” she asks, stopping in the middle of the hallway.

“ _Why are you naked?_ ” he shrieks, quickly shutting the door behind him. “Put some clothes on!”

“Don’t avoid answering me!” Kai protests, crossing her arms and leaning forward. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything!” he shouts, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _Just put clothes on, for the love of God!”_

He stands there for a moment, eyes screwed up. He hears footsteps, and then the telltale _thump_ of a body hitting the floor. Shocked, he opens his eyes again to see Kai--still _naked, Jesus Christ_ \--looking over her shoulder at Simmons, who must have turned into the hallway and promptly fainted.

“Guess my ping pong ball trick isn’t for everyone,” Kai says casually, shrugging and finally going into her bedroom.

Grif nods dumbly. Then--

“Wait. _What?_ ”

They spend the evening watching Battlestar Gallactica reruns on TV.

And if the food tastes a little better than it has in a while, or if the adventures on screen hold his attention better than usual, or if the thoughts swirling around the back of his head no longer hurt, what of it?

* * *

One dramatic coffee meeting becomes two, becomes four, becomes several much less dramatic coffee meetings.

It starts happening frequently enough that Grif can shrug on a hoodie if the day is cold, shove his feet into his sneakers, and announce that he’s off to meet up with Locus as casually as he goes to see Carolina, Tucker, or Donut.

And there isn’t anything _weird_ about that except it’s _Locus,_ and if two years ago he’d been told that he’d be getting drinks with a genocidal maniac at least once a week, Grif would’ve probably laughed sardonically. At least.

But beyond the dramatics and the mountain of baggage between them, Locus is a surprisingly easy person to be around. Even on the days when Grif wakes up convinced he’s alone on some godforsaken moon that was supposed to be home, the days when he can hardly be bothered to brush his teeth or throw on fresh clothes because nothing _matters,_ he can find it in him to talk with Locus.

Thankfully, Simmons isn’t the kind of person to get jealous. Plus, he gets it, Grif thinks. He gets that sometimes Grif is a little fucked up.

But it’s not all introspective conversations about their shortcomings or vague suggestions of their dissatisfaction in life.

“I cannot believe you just said that to me. Right in front of my pizza!” Grif cries, gesturing to the entire pie in front of him.

Locus takes a sip of his milkshake, keeping his gaze even. When he finally swallows, he pulls away and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I stand by what I said. Ender’s story is much more compelling than Bean’s.”

“Uh, did you even _read_ Children of the Mind?” Grif counters, waving a slice of pizza around. “The entire storyline crashed and burned.”

“And what do you have to say about Shadow Puppets?”

Grif scowls, kicking his foot against the leg of the table. “Everyone knows nothing after Shadow of the Hegemon counts,” he says sourly, chewing on a piece of pizza.

Locus takes a pleased sip of his milkshake. “It seems to me,” he says--and he’s so _smug,_ the bastard--, “That Ender got _three_ good books whereas Bean only got two. Therefore,” he says louder, lifting his milkshake from the table at the exact second Grif makes a swipe for it. “Ender’s story is better than Bean’s.”

Grif scowls, leaning forward on his elbows. “ _Fine,_ ” he hisses eventually. “You don’t have to look so smug about it, though.”

Locus takes another smug sip of his treat.

“Hey, why are you eating that, anyways?” Grif wonders. “Aren’t you some kind of health nut or something?”

Locus shrugs, and Grif isn’t sure if he can remember him ever seeming so relaxed. “Well, it’s certainly not _good_ for you,” he prefaces, his nose crinkling in a grimace. “But it does taste very good.”

“If it tastes good, it’s good for you,” Grif says sagely, picking up a new slice of pizza. “By the way,” he says casually. “Sarge is having a party at his place this weekend. Everyone’s invited. It’s mostly gonna be hotdogs and unhealthy shit, but I’m sure Simmons will make some disgusting vegan dish or something that you could eat,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

Locus looks shocked across the table from him. Suddenly self-conscious, Grif tries to back-pedal.

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to come,” he says quickly. “But I invited you, so you might as well.”

“I will… think about it,” Locus says quietly, never quite losing the deer in headlights expression. Grif supposes that’s as good as he’ll get.

* * *

Technically, it’s not just any cookout. Today marks exactly one year since they moved into their new houses and officially started their permanent retirement. So, while he’d like to write off Sarge’s dramatics as normal and annoying, he really can’t, because even Grif can admit that this is a huge deal.

How long had they lasted on the moon, anyways? How long _would_ they have lasted?

Sarge outdoes himself on the grill. There are piles of hamburgers, hot dogs, and other strange meat combinations that are probably both original and inedible. Simmons brought over a huge salad, so everyone could pretend to be healthy. Grif contributed by eating croutons by the fist full. Tucker has a huge tureen of baked beans and a keg, Wash and Carolina contribute napkins and plates, and Caboose pours everyone water.

Donut, of course, makes the cake.

Grif is in the middle of trying to sneak a piece of the pink, sparkling monstrosity when he sees movement from the driveway. Thinking it’s Donut, he ducks down behind the cake, but ends up whacking his head on the table it’s resting on.

“Fuckin’… _fuck!_ ” he hisses, clutching his head. Miraculously, the towering cake doesn’t so much as wobble.

“Is that how you greet friends?”

Grif stands up so quickly he almost whacks his head against the table again. He gapes at Locus-- _friends,_ yeah, he supposes that’s what they are--but only for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Well shit, didn’t think you’d come,” he says. “Come on back. I’m sure Simmons has some salad for you.”

“That would be lovely,” Locus says, and he isn’t even being _sarcastic._ What a weirdo.

When they enter the main part of the back yard, all activity seems to stop. Caboose hits a volleyball over the net and Tucker doesn’t move to intercept it. It hits Lopez, knocking his head onto a nearby lawn chair with a crash.

“You… didn’t tell anyone you invited me,” Locus surmises flatly, clutching whatever he brought tightly in his hands.

“Uh,” Grif says intelligently. “Locus is here!” he says to the group.

Wash moves first, nodding at Locus like he _knows_ something about this. Locus returns the nod, and isn’t _that_ just infuriating? Carolina scoops the volleyball off of the ground and declares a rematch, and everyone else moves into normal action quickly enough.

By the time the food is done, it’s as if Locus was supposed to be there the entire time. He stands over Sarge at the grill, and Sarge is happy to explain his ten point grilling perfection maneuver to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.

It’s nice. It feels… it feels like…

“Nice job,” Carolina says, from directly behind him.

He jumps, barking out a startled sound as pieces of meat and globs of bean jump from his plate back onto the table. He stares at the mess sadly for a moment, then whirls around on her.

“Look, we have _got_ to work on this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carolina replies, but she’s smiling. Somehow, that makes it even scarier. “So you two have been meeting up?” She nods in Locus’s direction. He’s currently been pulled into a riveting conversation about doorknobs by Caboose. Wash looks on with… pride? Blue team problems.

“Yeah, for coffee and stuff,” he says casually. “It’s no big deal.”

“I think that’s…” she clears her throat. “Pretty rad.”

Grif cringes. “Okay, trying _way_ too hard there, dude.”

She scowls and punches his arm, heading back to Tucker and the volleyball net.

“What did I _tell_ you about that!” he screeches after her, cradling his arm.

Much later, when everyone has eaten their fill and Sarge has finally been pulled away from the grill, they make up a bonfire. It gives Grif a sense of deja vu, as he sits with Simmons plastered to one side and Locus sitting on his other, staring into the fire. At one point, Donut drags Simmons off to clean up the dishes, and then it’s just him and Locus on one side of the fire, while Sarge entertains the Blues and Lopez with some ridiculous battle story.

“Do you remember what you said, the first time we got coffee together?” Locus asks suddenly, looking away from the fire and into his cup.

Grif thinks back to that day, nearly six months ago now. Things were much different then, he muses. Much more bitter. “Yeah,” he says lightly, shrugging. “Why?”

“You told me that your retirement felt meaningless,” Locus says matter of factly Oh, right. He had, hadn’t he?

Grif doesn’t say anything, just looks into the fire.

“Does it still feel that way?”

He sighs, sitting back in his chair. Ignoring Locus’s glare, he fishes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one, taking a deep drag and exhaling before his response. “No, I guess it doesn’t,” he admits.

The air suddenly feels a little too charged, a little too vulnerable. Grif takes another deep drag to try and dispel it. “And you?” he says quickly, turning to meet Locus’s gaze. “Do you still think you don’t deserve to be here?”

The fire crackles.

“Upon further consideration,” Locus says slowly, deliberately. “I guess I no longer think that.”

Grif finishes his cigarette and flicks it into the fire. He grabs a beer from the nearby cooler and twists it open, taking a gulp.

Carolina laughs as Sarge manages to flip Wash while demonstrating a ridiculous, impractical wrestling move. Caboose cheers for Wash to win the battle. Tucker walks in on the scene and immediately dissolves into giggles. He can’t hear Donut and Simmons from inside the house, but he’s willing to bet that they’ve stumbled into some deep, meaningful conversation in there.

It feels pretty good, he notices. It feels pretty nice.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me screaming at [my tumblr!](http://hakanakiki.tumblr.com)


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